The unfortunate Pan Michael did not know that there is a right higher and older than all other human rights, in virtue of which the heart must and does follow love only; but the heart which ceases to love commits thereby the deepest perfidy, though often with as much innocence as the lamp quenches in which fire has burned out the oil. Not knowing this. Pan Michael embraced Krysia’s knees, implored, and begged; but she answered him with floods of tears only because she could not answer with her heart.
“Krysia,” said the knight, at last, while rising, “in your tears my happiness may drown; and I do not implore you for that, but for rescue.”
“Do not ask me for a reason,” answered Krysia, sobbing; “do not ask for a cause, since it must be this way, and cannot be otherwise. I am not worthy of such a man as you, and I have never been worthy. I know that I am doing you an injustice, and that pains me so terribly that, see! I cannot help myself. I know that this is an injustice. O God of greatness, my heart is breaking! Forgive me; do not leave me in anger! Pardon me; do not curse me!” When she had said this, Krysia threw herself on her knees before Pan Michael. “I know that I am doing you a wrong, but I implore of you condescension and pardon.”
Here the dark head of Krysia bent to the floor. Pan Michael raised in one moment the poor weeping maiden, and placed her again on the sofa; but he began himself to pace up and down in the room, like one dazed. At times he stopped suddenly and pressed his fists to his temples; then again he walked; at last he stood before Krysia.
“Leave yourself time, and me some hope,” said he. “Think that I too am not of stone. Why press red-hot iron against me without the least pity? Even though I knew not my own endurance, still when the skin hisses, pain pierces me. I cannot tell you how I suffer, — as God lives, I cannot. I am a simple man; my years have passed in war. Oh, for God’s sake! O dear Jesus! In this same room our love began. Krysia, Krysia! I thought that you would be mine for life; and now there is nothing, nothing! What has taken place in you? Who has changed your heart? Krysia, I am just the same. And do you not know that for me this is a worse blow than for another, for I have already lost one love? O Jesus, what shall I tell her to move her heart? A man only torments himself, that is all. But leave me even hope! Do not take everything away at one time.”
Krysia made no answer; but sobbing shook her more and more; the little knight stood before her, restraining at first his sorrow, and terrible anger. And only when he had broken that in himself, he said, —
“Leave me even hope! Do you hear me?”
“I cannot! I cannot!” answered Krysia.
Pan Michael went to the window and pressed his head against the cold glass. He stood a long time without motion; at last he turned, and advancing a couple of steps toward Krysia, he said in a very low voice, —
“Farewell! There is nothing for me here. Oh that it may be as pleasant for you as it is grievous for me! Know this, that I forgive you with my lips, and as God will grant, I will forgive you with my heart as well. But have more mercy on people’s suffering, and a second time promise not. It cannot be said that I take happiness with me from these thresholds! Farewell!”
When Pan Michael had said this, his mustaches quivered; he bowed, and went out. In the next room were Makovetski and his wife and Zagloba; they sprang up at once as if to inquire, but he only waved his hand. “All to no use!” said he. “Leave me in peace!”
From that room a narrow corridor led to his own chamber; in that corridor, at the staircase leading to the young ladies’ rooms, Basia stopped the way to the little knight. “May God console you and change Krysia’s heart!” cried she, with a voice trembling from tears.
He went past without even looking at her, or saying a word. Suddenly wild anger bore him away; bitterness rose in his breast; he turned, therefore, and stood before the innocent Basia with a face changed and full of derision. “Promise your hand to Ketling,” said he, hoarsely, “then cease to love him, trample on his heart, rend it, and go to the cloister!”
“Pan Michael!” cried Basia, in amazement.
“Enjoy yourself, taste kisses, and then go to repent! Would to God that you both were killed!”
That was too much for Basia. God alone knew how much she had wrestled with herself for this wish which she had given Pan Michael, — that God might change Krysia’s heart, — and in return an unjust condemnation had met her, derision, insult, just at the moment in which she would have given her blood to comfort the thankless man. Therefore her soul stormed up in her as quickly as a flame; her cheeks burned; her nostrils dilated; and without an instant’s thought, she cried, shaking her yellow hair, —
“Know, sir, that I am not the one who is going to the cloister for Ketling!”
When she had said this, she sprang on the stairs and vanished from before the eyes of the knight. He stood there like a stone pillar; after a while he began to rub his eyes like a man who is waking from sleep.
Then he was thirsting for blood; he seized his sabre, and cried with a terrible voice, “Woe to the traitor!”
A quarter of an hour later Pan Michael was rushing toward Warsaw so swiftly that the wind was howling in his ears, and lumps of earth were flying in a shower from the hoofs of his horse.
CHAPTER XX.
Pan Makovetski, with his wife and Zagloba, saw Pan Michael riding away, and alarm seized all hearts; therefore they asked one another with their eyes, “What has happened; where is he going?”
“Great God!” cried Pani Makovetski; “he will go to the Wilderness, and we shall never see him again in life!”
“Or to the cloister, like that crazy woman,” said Zagloba, in despair.
“Counsel is necessary here,” said Makovetski.
With that the door opened and Basia burst into the room like a whirlwind, excited, pale, with fingers in both her eyes; stamping in the middle of the floor, like a little child, she began to scream, “Rescue! save! Pan Michael has gone to kill Ketling! Whoso believes in God, let him fly to stop him! Rescue! rescue!”
“What is the matter, girl?” cried Zagloba, seizing her hands.
“Rescue! Pan Michael will kill Ketling! Through me blood will be shed, and Krysia will die, all through me!”
“Speak!” cried Zagloba, shaking her. “How do you know? Why is it through you?”
“Because I told him in anger that they love each other; that Krysia is going behind the grating for Ketling’s sake. Whoso believes in God, stop them! Go quickly; go all of you! Let us all go!”
Zagloba, not wont to lose time in such cases, rushed to the yard and gave command to bring the carriage out at once. Pani Makovetski wished to ask Basia about the astonishing news, for up to that moment she had not suspected the love between Krysia and Ketling; but Basia rushed after Zagloba to look to the harnessing of the horses. She helped to lead out the beasts and attach them to the carriage; at last, though bareheaded, she mounted the driver’s seat before the entrance, where two men were waiting and already dressed for the road.
“Come down!” said Zagloba to her.
“I will not come down! Take your seats; you must take your seats; if not, I will go alone!” So saying, she took the reins, and they, seeing that the stubbornness of the girl might cause a considerable delay, ceased to ask her to come down.
Meanwhile the servant ran up with a whip: and Pani Makovetski succeeded in bringing out a shuba and cap to Basia, for the day was cold. Then they moved on. Basia remained on the driver’s seat. Zagloba, wishing to speak with her, asked her to sit on the front seat; but she was unwilling, it may be through fear of being scolded. Zagloba therefore had to inquire from a distance, and she answered without turning her head.
“How do you know,” asked he, “that which you told your uncle about those two?”
“I know all.”
“Did Krysia tell you?”
“Krysia told me nothing.”
“Then maybe the Scot did?”
“No, but I know; and that is why he is going to England. He
fooled everybody but me.”
“A wonderful thing!” said Zagloba.
“This is your work,” said Basia; “you should not have pushed them against each other.”
“Sit there in quiet, and do not thrust yourself into what does not belong to you,” answered Zagloba, who was struck to the quick because this reproach was made in presence of Makovetski. Therefore he added after a while, “I push anybody! I advise! Look at that! I like such suppositions.”
“Ah, ha! do you think you did not?” retorted the maiden.
They went forward in silence. Still, Zagloba could not free himself from the thought that Basia was right, and that he was in great part the cause of all that had happened. That thought grieved him not a little; and since the carriage jolted unmercifully, the old noble fell into the worst humor and did not spare himself reproaches.
“It would be the proper thing,” thought he, “for Michael and Ketling to cut off my ears in company. To make a man marry against his will is the same as to command him to ride with his face to a horse’s tail. That fly is right! If those men have a duel, Ketling’s blood will be on me. What kind of business have I begun in my old age! Tfu, to the Devil! Besides, they almost fooled me, for I barely guessed why Ketling was going beyond the sea — and that daw to the cloister; meanwhile the haiduk had long before found out everything, as it seems.” Here Zagloba meditated a little, and after a while muttered, “A rogue, not a maiden! Michael borrowed eyes from a crawfish to put aside such as she for that doll!”
Meanwhile they had arrived at the city; but there their troubles began really. None of them knew where Ketling was lodging, or where Pan Michael might go; to look for either was like looking for a particular poppy-seed in a bushel of poppy-seeds. They went first to the grand hetman’s. People told them there that Ketling was to start that morning on a journey beyond the sea. Pan Michael had come, inquired about the Scot, but whither the little knight had gone, no one knew. It was supposed that he might have gone to the squadron stationed in the field behind the city.
Zagloba commanded to return to the camp; but there it was impossible to find an informant. They went to every inn on Dluga Street; they went to Praga; all was in vain. Meanwhile night fell; and since an inn was not to be thought of, they were forced to go home. They went back in tribulation. Basia cried some; the pious Makovetski repeated a prayer; Zagloba was really alarmed. He tried, however, to cheer himself and the company.
“Ha!” said he, “we are distressed, and perhaps Michael is already at home.”
“Or killed!” said Basia. And she began to wail there in the carriage, repeating, “Cut out my tongue! It was my fault, my fault! Oh, I shall go mad!”
“Quiet there, girl! the fault is not yours,” said Zagloba; “and know this, — if any man is killed, it is not Michael.”
“But I am sorry for the other. We have paid him handsomely for his hospitality; there is nothing to be said on that point. O God, O God!”
“That is the truth!” added Pan Makovetski.
“Let that rest, for God’s sake! Ketling is surely nearer to Prussia than to Warsaw by this time. You heard that he is going away; I have hope in God too, that should he meet Volodyovski they will remember old friendship, service rendered together. They rode stirrup to stirrup; they slept on one saddle; they went together on scouting expeditions; they dipped their hands in one blood. In the whole army their friendship was so famous that Ketling, by reason of his beauty, was called Volodyovski’s wife. It is impossible that this should not come to their minds when they see each other.”
“Still, it is this way sometimes,” said the discreet Makovetski, “that just the warmest friendship turns to the fiercest animosity. So it was in our place when Pan Deyma killed Pan Ubysh, with whom he had lived twenty years in the greatest agreement. I can describe to you that unhappy event in detail.”
“If my mind were more at ease, I would listen to you as gladly as I do to her grace, my benefactress, your grace’s spouse, who has the habit also of giving details, not excepting genealogies; but what you say of friendship and animosity has stuck in my head. God forbid! God forbid that it should come true this time!”
“One was Pan Deyma, the other Pan Ubysh. Both worthy men and fellow-soldiers—”
“Oi, oi, oi!” said Zagloba, gloomily. “We trust in the mercy of God that it will not come true this time; but if it does, Ketling will be the corpse.”
“Misfortune!” said Makovetski, after a moment of silence. “Yes, yes! Deyma and Ubysh. I remember it as if to-day. And it was a question also of a woman.”
“Eternally those women! The first daw that comes will brew such beer for you that whoever drinks will not digest it,” muttered Zagloba.
“Don’t attack Krysia, sir!” cried Basia, suddenly.
“Oh, if Pan Michael had only fallen in love with you, none of this would have happened!”
Thus conversing, they reached the house. Their hearts beat on seeing lights in the windows, for they thought that Pan Michael had returned, perhaps. But Pani Makovetski alone received them; she was alarmed and greatly concerned. On learning that all their searching had resulted in nothing, she covered herself with bitter tears and began to complain that she should never see her brother again. Basia seconded her at once in these lamentations. Zagloba too was unable to master his grief.
“I will go again to-morrow before daylight, but alone,” said he; “I may be able to learn something.”
“We can search better in company,” put in Makovetski.
“No; let your grace remain with the ladies. If Ketling is alive, I will let you know.”
“For God’s sake! We are living in the house of that man!” said Makovetski. “We must find an inn somehow to-morrow, or even pitch tents in the field, only not to live longer here.”
“Wait for news from me, or we shall lose each other,” said Zagloba. “If Ketling is killed—”
“Speak more quietly, by Christ’s wounds!” said Pani Makovetski, “for the servants will hear and tell Krysia; she is barely alive as it is.”
“I will go to her,” said Basia.
And she sprang upstairs. Those below remained in anxiety and fear. No one slept in the whole house. The thought that maybe Ketling was already a corpse filled their hearts with terror. In addition, the night became close, dark; thunder began to roar and roll through the heavens; and later bright lightning rent the sky each moment. About midnight the first storm of the spring began to rage over the earth. Even the servants woke.
Krysia and Basia went from their chamber to the dining-room. There the whole company prayed and sat in silence, repeating in chorus, after each clap of thunder, “And the Word was made flesh!” In the whistling of the whirlwind was heard at times, as it were, a certain horse-tramp, and then fear and terror raised the hair on the heads of Basia, Pani Makovetski, and the two men; for it seemed to them that at any moment the door might open, and Pan Michael enter, stained with Ketling’s blood. The usually mild Pan Michael, for the first time in his life, oppressed people’s hearts like a stone, so that the very thought of him filled them with dread.
However, the night passed without news of the little knight. At daylight, when the storm had abated in a measure, Zagloba set out a second time for the city. That whole day was a day of still greater alarm. Basia sat till evening in the window in front of the gate, looking at the road along which Pan Zagloba might return.
Meanwhile the servants, at command of Pan Makovetski, were packing the trunks slowly for the road. Krysia was occupied in directing this work, for thus she was able to hold herself at a distance from the others. For though Pani Makovetski did not mention Pan Michael in the young lady’s presence even by one word, still that very silence convinced Krysia that Pan Michael’s love for her, their former secret engagement, and her recent refusal had been discovered; and in view of this, it was difficult to suppose that those people, the nearest to Pan Michael, were not offended and grieved. Poor Krysia felt that it must be so
, that it was so, — that those hearts, hitherto loving, had withdrawn from her; therefore she wished to suffer by herself.
Toward evening the trunks were ready, so that it was possible to move that very day; but Pan Makovetski was waiting yet for news from Zagloba. Supper was brought; no one cared to eat it; and the evening began to drag along heavily, insupportably, and as silent as if all were listening to what the clock was whispering.
“Let us go to the drawing-room,” said Pan Makovetski, at last. “It is impossible to stay here.”
They went and sat down; but before any one had been able to speak the first word, the dogs were heard under the window.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 260